


Indigo: The Accident

by wheel_pen



Series: Indigo [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hits his slave Indigo. But it was an accident. Sort of. He really thought he would duck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indigo: The Accident

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Sherlock had been puzzling over the crime scene photos all afternoon, and something wasn’t quite right about them. He couldn’t decide exactly what, and that irked him. Well, there was no help for it; time for an experiment.

“Indigo,” he summoned. The other man was in the kitchen, cleaning or something pointless like that, but he dutifully appeared at Sherlock’s call. “You stand right here,” he directed, positioning him in the middle of the open space in the living room. And then Sherlock punched him in the face.

It was difficult to say which one of them was more shocked; the slight edge went to Indigo, who staggered backwards, eyes wide, hands clapped over his nose. But Sherlock looked almost equally aghast.

“Why did you let me hit you in the face?!” he demanded, with disbelief.

“Why _did_ you hit me in the face?!” Indigo shot back, checking to see how much blood was coming out of his nose. Fortunately not too much.

“I thought you would duck!”

“You didn’t _tell_ me to duck!”

Indigo was looking at him in a very accusatory way, and Sherlock would have none of it. “You were supposed to duck,” he insisted, “and I would see which way you moved. It was an experiment!”

Indigo’s eyes narrowed. “Well let’s switch places, then.”

Sherlock did not like the sarcasm. “I’ll know it’s coming and bias the results,” he refuted, even though he knew that wasn’t Indigo’s point. “Well, _sorry_ , it was an accident—“ His tone was not exactly contrite, but he reached for the slave, intending to comfort him.

Indigo backed away hastily and turned around. “I’m just—going up to my room for a while,” he announced, retreating through the kitchen to the back stairs.

“Indigo!” Sherlock huffed indignantly. The man ignored him. Well, fine. Let him brood for a while, then.

**

Lestrade was surprised when Sherlock let him in personally, and more surprised when there was no tea forthcoming, and _even_ more when he had to move several things in order to sit down on the couch. “Where’s Indigo, then?” he asked. He had gotten used to Sherlock’s flat being much more welcoming lately.

Sherlock snatched away the folder he’d brought, craving new stimulation after solving the last case days ago. “He’s sulking in his room,” he complained scathingly, already flipping through the photos and reports.

Lestrade snorted. “What’d you do _this_ time?” he asked knowingly. Indigo put up with Sherlock amazingly well—of course, in a sense he _had_ to, but everyone knew slaves could make your life miserable if they wanted—and the man _did_ have limits.

“Oh, I hit him,” Sherlock said dismissively, barely paying attention, and Lestrade’s eyes went wide.

“You what?” Whatever Sherlock had done was almost certainly not illegal, but Lestrade was still surprised.

Sherlock finally looked up at him, then rolled his eyes at his expression. “It was an _accident_ ,” he explained peevishly, and Lestrade relaxed somewhat. “I thought he would duck,” he added, and Lestrade tensed again.

“You thought he would duck,” he repeated slowly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock snapped irritably. “It _is_ natural to duck when you see someone take a swing at you. I was going quite slowly. I don’t know why he didn’t.”

There were days, Lestrade thought, when Sherlock had to be one of the _least_ intelligent people he knew. “How long ago was this?” he asked carefully.

He could see Sherlock did not understand why they were still on this subject. “Three days,” he replied shortly. “Three days he’s been hiding in his room, skulking around the flat when he thinks I’m out or asleep, _eating_.” He sounded thoroughly disgusted with the other man. “It’s childish.”

Lestrade thought a moment, then reached over and snatched the folder from Sherlock’s hands; he squawked in protest. “You really are an insensitive git sometimes, aren’t you,” he pronounced.

Sherlock was not wounded by the insult, merely confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you normally punish Indigo by hitting him?” Lestrade asked, a bit rhetorically.

As he predicted Sherlock was offended by this suggestion. “No, of course not, I would never—“

“It’s not illegal,” Lestrade shrugged. “Lots of people beat their slaves.”

Sherlock gazed at him coldly. “I don’t. I told you, it was an accident.”

“Well, not _really_ ,” Lestrade countered. “Rather stupid excuse for an accident.”

“Did you have a point, Detective Inspector?” Sherlock asked crisply. “Or have you decided that lecturing me about my own slave is more important than solving your murder?”

“I’ve got other people who can solve murders,” Lestrade claimed, which Sherlock clearly doubted. “My point is, your not-really-an-accident probably just reminded Indigo of all the _real_ beatings he’s gotten, and he’s been hiding in his room _terrified_ of you.”

The look of disbelief on Sherlock’s face convinced Lestrade of his sincerity, if not his intelligence. “No,” he denied slowly. “That’s ridiculous. Why would he be afraid of me? I _told_ him it was an accident—“

Lestrade shook his head. “It’s not rational,” he tried to explain. “Same thing happened when we first got Mahalia, she’d had a master who beat her and she was terrified every time I walked in the room that I was going to do the same.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock judged, “unless you _accidentally_ struck her one day, and she responded irrationally. Indigo has been here for months, he _knows_ I wouldn’t hurt him. He’s too intelligent to behave that way.”

Lestrade sighed; maybe there was no way he could make Sherlock understand this. But he’d seen plenty of abuse victims himself. “It’s not a matter of intelligence,” he finally said, simply. He could see the younger man was mulling it over anyway, his eyes darting towards the back stairs that led to Indigo’s room. “You should patch things up with him,” he added gently. “No telling how long he’ll be like this, otherwise.”

The last bit may have been going too far and Sherlock turned on him, glaring daggers. “ _Don’t_ tell me how to treat Indigo,” he responded, his voice all the more dangerous for being quiet.

Lestrade held up his hands placatingly. “Alright, alright, whatever you say,” he agreed. He dropped the folder on the couch and stood. “You know where to reach me if you think of anything.” He let himself out, because Sherlock was too angry at him to get up from his chair and help. Practically _pouting_ , Lestrade thought, rolling his eyes.

Once Lestrade had gone Sherlock tried to focus on the case he’d left; it wasn’t very interesting, though, not as interesting as Indigo and his apparent _issues_. Finally Sherlock gave up the pretense of working and crossed the kitchen to the door leading to the back stairs. When he opened it, it creaked, and he imagined Indigo hearing it, knowing he’d done it. Was he really _frightened_ of Sherlock? _Peeved_ , Sherlock could understand, well, not really, but it was easier to relate to, although _three days_ seemed rather excessive. Was it excessive for being frightened, though? He started up the stairs.

Indigo had been through several masters in the few years he’d been a slave; that indicated instability—he was appealing at first, but he was sold away sooner rather than later. A bad attitude unimproved by his masters’ attempts at discipline, perhaps. Well, Sherlock _did_ want to throttle him sometimes, except not really—he kept things running smoothly, removed many of the irritants Sherlock usually had to deal with himself, so nothing to be beaten over. Although, one didn’t have to be a genius to imagine other masters wanting things Indigo was reluctant to give, and then punishing him for his reticence. His life as a slave had clearly not been a happy one, even if Sherlock didn’t know the details.

Sherlock stopped at the door to Indigo’s room and knocked on it. “Indigo?” Hardly necessary, if he was awake he would’ve heard him coming long before now. There was no response. “Indigo?” He tried the door; it was unlocked, and unblocked. He pushed it open without crossing the threshold, looking around the plain, sparsely furnished room. He didn’t see him—he wouldn’t have _left_ the flat, would he? It seemed unlikely he could’ve gotten past Sherlock.

He entered the room cautiously, tipping his head to glance under the bed, checking the space behind the door. He stopped in the middle of the room and pivoted slowly. Indigo was sitting on the floor in the corner between the wall and the dresser, legs drawn up, arms wrapped around them, chin resting on his knees. His deep blue eyes watched Sherlock unnervingly; Sherlock almost jumped when he blinked.

“Indigo.” Sherlock was not actually sure what to say next. Instead he walked over to him, carefully, and knelt down in front of him. “Why are you hiding up here?” he asked in a reasonable tone, far more reasonable than he felt. “Come downstairs and—“ He reached out to touch Indigo’s cheek and the slave flinched—flinched!—away from him. It made Sherlock’s blood run cold.

“Indigo, I’m not going to hurt you,” he tried, touching his cheek anyway. There was a little bruising around his nose, nothing too bad. “I told you, it was an acci—“ He could tell the moment Indigo faded out, his eyes becoming faraway, his muscles less tense. “No. Hey.” Sherlock shook his arm slightly. “Stop it. Indigo! I want to talk to you.” Sherlock stroked his cheek lightly, brushed his thumb over his lips. Indigo’s gaze sharpened slightly and Sherlock rushed to speak before he lost him again.

“I really thought you were going to duck, I’m told that’s a stupid excuse but it’s true, alright, I should’ve thought it through a little better, but I would never hit you on purpose—“ He was rewarded by, not really a smile, but a faint quirking of the lips, and a more relaxed posture but with Indigo’s gaze still present. Sherlock pushed it, because he always pushed it. “Lestrade said you were thinking of being beaten by previous masters.” Indigo shrugged in a way that seemed to indicate this was not so far-fetched, and Sherlock frowned, his fingers still caressing his face. “It’s hard to imagine beating you,” he said, trying to be precise—he didn’t like making promises.

“Personally, or generally?” Indigo responded, which was the first thing he’d said to Sherlock in three days. Sherlock realized he’d missed hearing his voice.

“Personally, difficult to imagine,” Sherlock clarified. “Generally… undesirable to imagine.” His hand clenched involuntarily at the thought and Indigo tipped his head to lean against it. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“That makes two of us,” Indigo agreed dryly.

“Sorry,” Sherlock finally said, sincerely. “I’ll think it through better next time. Try to,” he amended, not as a loophole, but as an attempt at accuracy. He couldn’t promise he’d never be wrong, loathe as he was to admit that.

Indigo smiled more, small but real, and started to uncoil himself, legs extending lazily on either side of Sherlock. “Was Lestrade here?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t offer him any tea, did you?” Indigo predicted tolerantly.

“Why should I offer him tea?” asked Sherlock in irritation. “This isn’t a bloody restaurant.” He let his hand trail down Indigo’s throat to his collarbone, then his chest. “Come downstairs,” he suggested again. “I’ve made a mess of the place.” This was supposed to be an inducement, so Indigo could bring order to chaos, and he rolled his eyes indulgently.

“Alright,” he agreed. “I’ll do some cleaning.”

“I think you should start in my bedroom,” Sherlock told him, quite seriously. His hand dropped to Indigo’s thigh, but rested there lightly, now uncertain what might trigger the other man.

Indigo did not seem upset, but rather stretched his arms over his head and arched his back slightly, Sherlock’s eyes fixed on the movements. “Really,” he responded. “Your bedroom is the filthiest.”

“It’s _really_ dirty,” Sherlock insisted, as though this was a world-ending crisis.

“I suppose I could investigate,” Indigo agreed, and held out his hand to Sherlock. “Help me up?”

“That _is_ what I was getting at,” Sherlock replied, not moving, and Indigo finally chuckled a little, so Sherlock thought it safe to smile as well. Then he stood and pulled the other man up, not letting go of his hand after. “Maybe, next time,” he ventured, “you could _tell_ me when you were upset, instead of hiding in your room.”

He tried to say this tactfully, but Indigo’s lips twitched anyway. “Are _you_ lecturing me on healthy emotional communication?” he asked lightly.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Sherlock conceded, pulling him closer.

“Very.” Sherlock went for his jaw, nuzzling right underneath it—one did not kiss slaves on the mouth—and Indigo slid his arms around him with a sigh. “Well, sorry, then. For not talking to you.”

“Understandable.”

“Really?” Indigo sounded surprised enough that Sherlock broke off kissing him to make eye contact.

“Well, not really,” he admitted, changing it to, “Acceptable.”

“Alright,” Indigo agreed. “Can we go downstairs?” he added before Sherlock could dive in again.

Right, no sex in his bedroom, Sherlock remembered. He hardly ever came up here at all. Probably another holdover that Sherlock would not _want_ to know about, but likely _should_. “Alright,” he said immediately, and taking his hand they went back downstairs.

**

This time, it was Indigo who opened the door, looking no worse for wear. Lestrade was surprised at how relieved he felt—the slave seemed to be good for Sherlock, at least when Sherlock didn’t alienate him. “Nice to see you again, Indigo,” Lestrade greeted. “How’ve you—“

Wearing an expression of thinly-stretched tolerance, Indigo put a finger to his lips to shush Lestrade. Not soon enough, however.

“Shut up!” Sherlock demanded from the living room. “I’m trying to _think_!”

Lestrade rolled his eyes and Indigo let him in, gesturing for him to have a seat. Sherlock was crouched in his usual chair, face buried in his hands. “Indigo!” he snapped, voice slightly muffled. “Are you writing this down?!”

“Yes,” the slave responded evenly, readying a notebook and pen.

“Quiet!” Sherlock ordered him contrarily. “Square root of… cosine… exponential… then to the power of…” Sherlock went on mumbling complicated-sounding math terms while Indigo scribbled them down dutifully. “Quick, what does that equal?” Sherlock asked, looking up.

“No idea,” Indigo admitted breezily. “Here.” He handed Sherlock the notebook and headed to the kitchen.

“We do not need bloody tea!” Sherlock told him crossly.

“How’s regular, then,” Indigo deadpanned, putting the kettle on. Sherlock made a primal noise of frustration and hurled the small notebook across the room.

Lestrade wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t have dropped by after all. “Is this for the case I gave you?” he ventured.

“What? No,” Sherlock replied, slumping in his chair. “That was perfectly simple. Solved it days ago.”

Lestrade frowned. “I didn’t _give_ it to you days ago,” he pointed out.

Sherlock waved off this inconsistency in the space-time continuum. “Older brother killed her, accidental, dispute of some kind, probably over money, usually is,” he rattled off, while Lestrade hurried to write it down. “Buried the body in potters’ field. Look for disturbed graves. Probably did a bad job concealing it, first-time accidental murderers are frightful slobs.”

“Lucky for us,” Lestrade muttered, as he texted Donovan to check out potters’ field and go over the older brother’s alibi again. “What was all that math stuff for, then? You got another case?”

“It’s in the _Times_ ,” Sherlock explained, waving his hand at the crumpled paper on the floor. “It’s fiendish, truly fiendish.”

“What is it?” Lestrade asked in confusion, unaware of any major crimes recently reported.

Indigo brought the tea tray in. “Sudoku,” he replied dryly.

Lestrade stared at him. “No. Really?” Indigo did not seem to be kidding. “Isn’t that just… number patterns, or something?”

“That’s what they _want_ you to believe,” Sherlock snapped, sounding slightly paranoid. “But I’ve discovered a larger scheme in the last four days of puzzles—“

“Tea?” Indigo interrupted him, having already served Lestrade.

“G-d,” Sherlock sighed, as though the cup of tea was the most monumental inconvenience he could possibly imagine. He took it, though, and the lemon biscuit Indigo offered him.

Lestrade smirked as he watched Indigo stand guard until Sherlock had actually _eaten_ the biscuit and drunk some tea. Apparently things were finally back to normal around here.


End file.
